


Samhain

by Nemainofthewater



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Family, Fluff, Food, Gen, Halloween, Spoilers through Damascus, Team as Family, Treat, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 02:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20941064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: Sometimes family is being gently bullied into taking care of yourself.





	Samhain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [labocat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/labocat/gifts).

> Written for the 2019 Trick or Treat Exchange. 
> 
> This is vaguely AU in that it's happy...? I don't think this entirely works in regards to timelines, but that's what you get for trying to be happy hahaha *crying in pain*

Oscar sighs and rubs his hands over his eyes. They’re dry and itchy and he indulges himself for a moment by leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off his incipient migraine. He has a literal pile of paperwork on his desk, thanks to LOLOMG and their bags of holding, all of it covered in dirt. He’s had to give up on prestidigitating his carpet.

He’s been in the cleaners’ bad books for a while: something about blood being hard to clean off wood, especially when it’d been left to soak in for an entire day. His reply of how wood around him usually was hard had been met poorly: two days later the blood stain is still there and the cleaning staff have been mysteriously ‘forgetting’ to clean his office. Although that honestly might be due to the fact he hasn’t left it for more than a couple of hours since his trip to the immolated factory. 

Well, that and the fact that they don’t want to deal with the pile of dirt and paper that he refuses to let them even glance at. He is under no illusion that there are more infiltrators in the Meritocratic forces than Barret knows of and, frankly, being part of the cleaning staff gives anyone ample opportunity and motive to sneak around in key Meritocratic agents’ offices.

There’s a knock at his office door. He suppresses a groan and stands, readying an Illusion in case the unknown infiltrators, whoever they are, have finally realised that the pile of paperwork on his desk and his vehement protection of it, is less an expression of his not-so-latent masochism and unhealthy-work ethic (yes he is self-aware to admit it, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to stop) and more that he’s got some actual relevant information.

(If he’s completely honest though, a part of him feels that they could burst into his office and engage in pitched battle with him and he would thank them because at least it wouldn’t be more paperwork. At least it wouldn’t be his responsibility then. He’s rather had enough of responsibility)

Taking a deep breath, he calls out: “Come in!”

The door opens with a bang: thankfully for the fate of the world (as the paperwork would definitely also be destroyed in the event of an actual fight) it isn’t the Calimagi. Instead there’s a blur of motion as Grizzop rushes in, in as much of a hurry as ever. He’s got his bow with him, as ever, though his quiver looks more ornate than usual with silvery vines burnt into the leather. He’s also dressed in a knee length silver chiton with little moons and arrows embroidered around the hem. It definitely isn’t impeding his movement.

“Oi!” Grizzop says punching his knee, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to break it, which, according to a frankly disturbing report he’d heard out of Cairo, was a real risk, “What are you still doing here? What part of bleeding from your orifices didn’t get through your thick skull?”

Oscar frowns at him, and quickly glances over to where the others started filtering in, more sedately but equally bizarrely dressed.

Azu has a long, pointed hat perched on top of her broken horn at a jaunty angle and wreathes of bright orange leaves wrapped around her waist, clashing horribly with her habitual pink glow: she really doesn’t care though, beaming widely, although Oscar can sympathise with the pained looks that Hamid is giving her.

Hamid himself is as stylishly dressed as always: he’s replaced his usual greens and purples with dark reds and golds reminiscent of autumn leaves. His waistcoat buttons are small pumpkins and he has his own wreath of leaves on his head, although his coordinate perfectly with his clothes.

Sasha is wearing what looks like her normal clothes, leather studded jacket included, but they’ve been dyed a deep black and are studded with spots of silver so that when she blends into her usual shadows, she twinkles like the night sky.

None of them react to Grizzop’s (rhetorical) question which means that they’ve heard all about the slight collapse that he had suffered a few days ago. Ah. Things are becoming clearer: evidentially they’re here in a misguided attempt to assuage their own guilt, forgetting that they _don’t actually like him_ and he knows it.

Grizzop grabs him by his cravat, untied and wrinkled as it is, and pulls him down so that he can stare intensely into his face, eyes scanning his smooth, blemish-free skin, the lack of circles under his eyes, the luscious curls framing his face, his lips, red and swollen and curled upward like a promise.

He pokes him in the side, harder, and Oscar muffles a pained grunt. Instead he smiles wider in a vain attempt to show off just how well rested he is, please leave now. Gently, as if this is a situation he finds himself in on a daily basis (and to be fair, that isn’t far from the truth) he pries off Grizzop’s fingers one by one and stands back up, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt before fixing the goblin with his most unimpressed stare, arching a well-rehearsed brow. He’s dripping with condescension, a ready innuendo on his lips, his practised mask fixed perfectly over his self. 

Grizzop snorts and rolls his eyes: he isn’t having any of it.

“Who do you think you’re kidding? Come on, get that Glamour down and get those magic-suppressing cuffs back on so you can get some actual rest.”

“I always knew that you wanted me in chains,” Oscar purrs, “What do you say that you and I-”

“Oscar!” he’s interrupted by six-and-a-half feet of violently colour-clashing orc (he reflexively winces in self-preservation) looking down at him with such a sad understanding and sympathy that the rest of his sentence dies unsaid: “Grizzop informed us that you were ill. Would you care for a hug?”

Looking into her wide eyes, there’s only one real response possible, even without the warning looks that the rest of LOLOMG are shooting him: he nods in mute response and Azu beams, literally beams as her pink glow brightens, and engulfs him in a careful hug.

It’s rather nice, actually. Wrapped in her warm arms, on the right side of firm without being constraining, he feels safe and protected from the outside world in a way that he hasn’t for…years. Decades. Most of his life. He resists the urge to melt into it, but when she finally pulls away he feels a pang of loss.

“Ey up Oscar,” Sasha says, waving from a patch of shadows on the other side of the room, “Hear you’re having a bit of a nightmare of a time. Get it? Because you’re having nightmares.”

“Sasha!” Hamid cries, re-entering the room lugging a picnic basket that’s almost as large as he is, “You can’t say that!”

“Nah,” Sasha says, “Me and Oscar’ve got this whole pun thing going on.”

“It’s been a dream so far,” Oscar agrees, his lips twitching into a more genuine smile.

He looks over at where Hamid has opened the basket and removed a large, woollen blanket that he is currently straightening out in the middle of the floor. It’s a warm, cheerful orange and looks inordinately soft. Hamid’s arms briefly disappear as he rummages around in what is definitely not a normal picnic basket, and pulls out three, four, no, seven pillows. Who needs that many pillows? Hamid evidentially, as he begins to arrange them fussily on the floor next to the blanket, humming with contentment once he gets their placement perfect.

“…What’s going on?”

“We’re having a picnic,” Azu says. She looks inordinately excited. “To celebrate the Irish tradition of Samhain with you.”

“Yeah,” Sasha says, coming over and helping herself to a chicken leg from the pile of food that Hamid is steadily unloading, “I’ve never celebrated Samhain, right? An’ I figure it’s probably just like Halloween, only I never really had one of those either. An’ Hamid said that there’s load of food and spooky stories and I’m pretty good at spooky stories.”

Azu frowns, so quickly that Oscar almost misses it: “Perhaps some stories that contain less dismemberment?”

“Nothing wrong with a good maiming,” Grizzop interjects, snagging a flaky pastry from the pile and taking a cautious bite.

“Do I get a say in this impromptu party?” Oscar interrupts, feeling incredibly bemused by last twenty minutes or so of his life. Perhaps a strange dream?

“No,” Hamid says peacefully, not even looking up from his work. Every square inch of the blanket is covered in food, both sweet and savoury, as well as several gently steaming flasks. Undaunted, Hamid has started stacking dishes on top of each other, demonstrating a surprising amount of engineering skill. The smell of roasted meats and aromatic spices is heavy in the air, drifting up and transforming his frankly depressing office into something otherworldly.

“Is this not a traditional Samhain custom?” Azu asks innocently, and Oscar squints up at her suspiciously. Smiling beatifically, she reaches behind her and produces yet another wreath, gently placing it on his head before he can object.

“Whatever it is,” Sasha says, words muffled as crumbs flying out from her mouth, “I think that it’s an egg-cellent idea, yeah?” She brandishes a pair of hard-boiled eggs in Oscars direction, and then takes a bit out of one of them. They look like duck eggs, although where they have managed to find them, Oscar has no idea.

“You must be yolking,” Oscar says, unable to help himself.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Grizzop says, yanking him down to sit on the floor with them. Oscar stumbles, and that’s enough of a weakness that Grizzop is able to stuff a whole boiled egg into his mouth. “Anyway,” he continues, “We’ve cracked it: the only way you’re actually going to feed yourself, so you don’t keel over and die, is if someone makes sure you actually eat.”

Chewing furiously so as not to choke himself, Oscar bristles: “I think you’ll find-” is as far as he gets before Hamid shoves a large goblet filled with steaming, golden liquid into his hands and he’s forced to turn his attention to it lest he spill it all over his office floor, the blanket, or an impressively tall tower of delicate cakes that are threatening to fall over into his lap.

By then it’s too late: he’s trapped. He sets down the goblet, only to automatically accept the empty plate that Hamid thrusts at him. The others are helping themselves to the feast in front of them, obviously Not Looking apart from Grizzop who is very definitely watching, and judging, him. 

“Ah,” he says, scanning the items in front of him to find something that won’t sit too heavy on his stomach: he has a rather large amount of paperwork he wants to finish before the next morning so that he can send at least a preliminary report back to Apophis (Meritocratic infiltrators or not, he doubts that Apophis himself is compromised) and indulging in a large meal can only hinder that goal.

“Oh no you don’t,” Grizzop says firmly as his hand hovers over the selection of grapes, “We’re getting some real food into you.”

Taking charge of his plate, Grizzop briskly serves him: mashed potatoes rich and redolent with butter and finely chopped chives, a finely seasoned venison stew, dark brown and practically falling apart under the touch of his fork, warm bread fresh from the oven, steamed green beans, vibrant with colour and delicately finished with scattered sesame seeds.

“And you’re not leaving until you’ve finished it all,” he says, pushing the plate back at Oscar, forcing him to choose between accepting it or have it fall straight into his lap.

“Contrary to popular belief, I am capable of feeding myself,” he retorts, narrowing his eyes and ignoring the warmth rising in him at the thought that they actually cared enough to go to all this trouble.

“Oh yeah? Drop that Glamour and then tell me again.”

Oscar declines to answer, instead taking a sip out of his as of yet untouched goblet. Heady cinnamon and nutmeg mixed with sweet, fresh apple burst across his palate and a steady warmth spreads itself through his body. It tastes like the sweet wizened apples of his childhood, carefully rationed throughout the bleak winters; like sitting in front of a roaring fire, bodies piled together to ward off the chill air; like the small pieces of toffee that he and his brother would steal from their parents’ soirées, giggling and hidden beneath the table.

“This isn’t bad,” he says, for once restraining himself to a single sincere descriptor where he would have used fifty emptier ones.

“Thank you, Oscar,” Hamid says, “I gave very specific instructions to the chef. It’s my recipe: I used to drink this at boarding school every autumn whenever I needed a reminder that the dank and dark weren’t all there was to the world.”

“Let me have a taste,” Sasha demands, making grabby hands at the goblet until Oscar passes it over. She takes a deep drink. “Huh,” she says, “S’nice. Good one, Hamid.”

“Yes,” Oscar says quietly, watching Grizzop fight to try some with Sasha defending her prize, while Hamid and Azu sip peaceably out of their own goblets and not even trying to get between the pair. These people who, despite their ridiculous name and propensity to create paperwork wherever they went, have firmly wormed their way through his shields, “Good one indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> You said that you liked autumn themed things, so I hope that you enjoy this Labocat!  
I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


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